A Bargain of Sorts
by bibliosaurus-rex
Summary: Set after the events of ACOMAF. Tamlin notices there are some things different about Feyre. Least of these is he expecting the unfamiliar scents entwined with hers, and the truths that lie behind them. Feyrhys. Angst? Mentions of possible forced/consensual sex. Kinda crap because I'm rusty but ehhh.


Since she came back, there are a few things different about Feyre.

The first is that she no longer has her engagement ring. I suppose Rhysand would've taken it away the minute he had her in his grasp. Bastard. That ring meant a lot. Unity. Peace. Protection. It was a symbol of our bond. A symbol of our love. But then again, I suppose a cruel High Lord with a wicked underground court would not care about the bond between me and Feyre. He certainly didn't care about symbols of love when he burst in on our wedding day.

The second thing different about Feyre is that she is always so reluctant to make love. Every night I see her, she gives me some excuse; she's tired, she's bleeding, she doesn't feel like it. I just want to have her, hold her- but she always seems so absent. She swears Rhys never laid a hand on her, but there's no telling what the bastard may have done to her. He could have wiped it from her mind with that awful power of his.

It is over now. She is here now. She is mine now.

The third thing I notice about Feyre is that she has stopped painting. She doesn't touch her art room, not once. I buy her more paints, a new easel. She just looks at me sadly, thanks me, and then does not touch them. Pity. I liked her paintings. I liked the way her face lit up with pride when I praised them. I wonder if Rhysand took that part of her, too.

The fourth thing I notice is how much stronger she looks. Not fatter; although she certainly has put on some weight. But muscular. It doesn't suit her; it makes her look like a fighter. She doesn't need to fight. I will protect her. Soon the mating bond will click into place and then… then there will be nothing that can take her from me. She will be irrevocably, unswervingly mine. Mine. Mine.

There's something else about Feyre that's different. Something I can't quite place. It's not visible, not physical. But there's something else. It itches under my skin knowing there's another way Rhysand has tainted her. I try and quiet the broiling rage that burns when I think about my beautiful, fragile Feyre in the terrifying Night Court.

I stroke her ear, moving the mousy hair around her face. I hardly sleep these days, I just lie in her bed and watch her breathe. When I do sleep, I am haunted with nightmares of losing her again. Of Under the Mountain. Of way she looked at Rhysand before she broke free. I pretend to be asleep as she awakes with a start and goes to the window. At least she's not vomiting. The sound used to make me feel sick myself.

I crack my eyes open to look at her, sat at the window seat. Her hair tumbles around her in moonlit waves. The shutters are wide open and she is staring out onto the gravel of the courtyard and beyond to the neat hedges and bloodred roses. A beautiful spring breeze swirls in from the garden, rustling leaves and grass. It plays with her hair and carries her scent across the room to me.

 _Her scent._

How could I be so blind? The lavender-and-jasmine wisp of magic is entwined with her scent. Ancient and familiar and not my Feyre's scent. She cannot use magic. Why does she smell like magic? It cannot be remnants of Rhysand's spell- its been weeks since she came home. How could she possibly be using magic herself? How? And why now, in the middle of the night?

I breathe deeper, hoping to smell answers on the faint wind.

There is something else. Another smell. Something unfamiliar buried in her scent. Something I know but cannot remember. Something citrusy and inherently masculine. Its almost Fae, but not quite. Its like night blossoms and starlight and blood.

 _Rhysand._

Blinding rage bursts out of me like a white-hot scream. Rhysand. Hybern never broke the deal, not fully. Or the curse is still there. Part of her still belongs to Rhysand. The fighting part of her. The beautiful artist part of her. The part of her that has passion and wonder. That part of her that is staring up at the night sky. Even as I loved her. Even as I protected her. Even as I-

" _What has he done to you."_ I didn't mean for all my anger to be in my voice, but my words drip with fury.

"Tamlin. I thought you were asleep." She sounds so innocent; but with Rhysand's curse still over her, who knows what information she's feeding back to him. Who knows what control he has over her.

"I can smell him on you _."_ I growl. She looks shocked, offended almost, "and magic, too. Are you still in his thrall?"

"What do you mean, Tam? Hybern broke the bargain." She offers her tattooless arms as proof.

"But his scent. Rhysand's. _Its still on you._ "

"Perhaps its left over from his spell?" Fear twists in her eyes.

"There's magic too, Feyre. His spell is still over you."

There's a pause. Feyre closes her eyes, a million things wheeling in her head.

"The magic…" she says softly, as if she's breaking bad news to a child. She pulls back a glamour on her other arm, and there writhes another tattoo, ugly and black on her beautiful skin. "Is mine."

" _Another bargain."_ Oh, Feyre, what have you done. What has he done to you?

"Of sorts."

" _OF SORTS."_ My anger breaks over the surface- I can feel claws on my fingers, and fur crawling up my spine. " _what is this bargain, Feyre."_

"It's my promise." She still has that soft voice. Cold. Calm.

" _Promise to do what."_

"I got it when I was sworn in as High Lady of the Night Court." There is no hatred in her voice. No panic. No sorrow, just quiet acceptance.

There was one other time I remember hearing Feyre speak this way. It was the same voice she used for the dead Summer Court Faerie almost a year ago. Then, I thought it was soothing. Now it feels cold and calculated.

 _"High Lady of the Night Court."_ I feel fangs, horns. The rage spurs my change on further.

"Well, as Rhysand's mate-"

Everything explodes. Rage, colossal, insurmountable rage washes over me. I feel my bones bend and break as I change, my power rushing out in wave after hate-fuelled wave. Agony and anger take me over. Fury and fur and fangs and-

 _Mate_

 _Mate_

 _Feyre is Rhysand's mate._

And there I could see it- that golden thread between them. The grins, the glances. It made sense, of course it did. It made irrevocable, unswerving sense. That he should take her away from me. That he should be able to take my beautiful Feyre and that it should be _right._

Not my Feyre anymore. His. Feyre is Rhysand's mate.

Maybe I had never diserved her. Maybe I had always been holding onto her so desperately because some part of me knew she would be taken away from me. That she was not mine to keep, however deep the passion was.

Feyre is Rhysand's mate. No amount of anger or protection or magic could break that.

When I stopped burning, she was gone. I was gone. The rage, the need to protect her; it all just stopped. There was no way I could have her if Feyre and Rhysand were mated. The ownership, the fury; it just vanished.

And the cold emptiness that filled me was much, much worse.


End file.
